goodbye
by Foolscapping
Summary: Pre-series. A boy gives a dog to a stranger. Outsider POV.


**Genre:** Sad stuff, man.  
**Pairing: **Gen.  
**Rating: **PG, just a little cursing.  
**Word Count:** 1,000+  
**Warning: **animal death  
**Summary: **A boy gives a dog to a stranger. Outsider POV.

Ever wonder what happened after Flagstaff? Me, too.

* * *

Just got back from a two-week shift on the oil rigs — got a week to myself lounging around my house, lazy and bored and mind endlessly wandering — when I noticed the kid. I was rolling out that ugly brown garbage bin to the street when I'd seen him moving from house to house; had a mop of brown hair, clothes a little too loose for him, and a Labrador on a make-shift leash created from heavy rope. I didn't really pay any attention other than a passing and curious look (and a little concern, because it was getting darker and this neighborhood wasn't exactly one Mr. Roger's would live in). Didn't much think of it again 'til someone knocked on the front door and I swung it open to see the boy (ten? eleven?) standing there looking up at me with big dewy eyes that'd give my kindergartner a run for his money.

"H-hi," he started. I could tell off the bat he was a sorta' meek, quiet one, summoning all his energy to interact with the outside world. Maybe because he didn't get out much, or maybe because he didn't usually have much to say, or maybe because nobody let him have much to say. The dog was still on the old rope, sitting on my welcome mat and panting happily; looked like he was the only happy one between the two. The kid's green eyes were lined a miserable pink, and the wetness had just dried on his face. Crying. "I — Do you have any room for a dog? As a pet? I, I need to find someone to take care of him; I don't wanna let him run off, and my dad said I had to hurry or — "

"He's your dog, or didja' just find him?"

"He's mine," the kid said quickly, running his fingers over the creature's soft tuft of hair at his neck. "I'm... moving, so he can't come with us. I've been asking, but nobody can..." He trailed off, looking distraught. I rubbed at my neck and told him with a wince, "I don't know, sorry. We've got cats..." And my wife would've nuked me on the doorstep if she came in to find a random dog; he sure was a pretty one, though. Golden, wavy fur. Real sweet, it seemed.

The kid's frown deepened and his eyes pleaded with me. End of the rope, looked like. He was desperate, hands gesturing, voice pinched and just a little higher, rasped at the ends of his sentences like he can barely contain it. "If you can, please — he won't cause you any trouble! He's such a good dog, I promise; he's so good, he even knows how to sit. And I — please, if you can; he's my best friend. I can't leave him alone."

Was hard to argue with that, right? "Okay, okay. Okay. Hey, it's fine. I'll... We'll see how he does. I won't let your dog go to the pound or anything. It'd be good to have a guard dog. And I think I could convince the others, since he's such a awesome guy." And of course I couldn't help it, and of course it made me feel like a bad-ass dog hero warrior. Marcelo, Savior of Dogs. The boy's shoulders melted in relief and he rubbed the lab's head happily, which kinda' made me sad to think there was happiness in giving away your best friend. The kid looked at the dog and said, "You got it, Bones? You're gonna be okay. You'll have a home here, 'kay? Like, with a backyard and a place you get to sleep every night. Nobody's gonna move you around."

"And a few kids," I added, and the boy smiled wetly. I felt like an intruder, watching him coax the animal. He was extremely gentle with him. He was a good kid.

"And kids. You get a home, okay? You'll be okay, boy."

The dog surprised the boy with a sloppy tongue across the cheek before he finally offered me the old rope leash. It was gonna be hell trying to get those sassy, shit-talking cats to appreciate a dog. Still had to try to figure out a way to get the wife's approval. The kid took a step back, just stood there for a moment to watch the dog and I, hands hovering like he wanted to keep stroking its fur. "Can — he still be Bones?"

My heart dropped into my gut. "... I, uh, yeah. Yeah, sure, kid. Bones is a bad-ass name."

A car — a nice-ass car, old-school, black and sleek (Impala, my mind supplied) — honked its horn down the block. I bent forward to stare at it and realized it was the kid's ride, the kid who was already backing up down the sidewalk, his eyes glued to Bones. "Goodbye," he breathed out, and his face crumpled a little before he turned and ran off in sneakers that were a size too big. Me n' Bones watched the scrawny, nameless boy get into the back seat of the car, flip a bitch, and start away from my neighborhood. That was the only time I'd ever see him, which I guess made sense, since he was probably going somewhere far, far away.

... Still...

Fifteen years later, Bones' head was laid weakly on my lap while the vet administered something to stop his heart and lull him into death, into peace, while my kids all choked on tears and snot and huddled around their mama, even as teenagers, like she were a life raft or the sun in the middle of an orbit — and I wondered what had ever happened to the kid who gave me this damn good dog. Meanwhile, Bones' eyes slid shut, and I felt the breath under his ribs flush out of his lungs. I stroked his fur and blinked hot tears and wondered if there were any dogs to rescue where that kid had been heading; he needed a good guard dog like this one. Good best friend like this one.

Wondered if he ever got another best friend, or sneakers that fit his feet.


End file.
